


Being expendable

by redsnake05



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-13
Updated: 2011-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-14 17:23:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/pseuds/redsnake05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Minerva is given the opportunity to contribute to the war against Grindelwald, she finds exhaustion, trust, and the rewards of being expendable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Being expendable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ragdoll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragdoll/gifts).



Neither of the two men who stood to meet Minerva were convincingly dressed as Muggles. As Minerva slipped round a table full of tired-eyed shift workers, she reflected that it was lucky that most of the people here were too tired, or too uncaring, to notice. She herself had caught the train down from Bletchley after an eighteen hour stint in the offices and it was only willpower and a few discreet charms that kept her steady on her heels.

Dumbledore held out his hand as she approached and smiled down at her. She returned the pressure of his hand, her own smile feeling thin under her Muggle lipstick. She turned to his companion and Minerva held out her hand to him.

"Miss McGonagall, I'd like you to meet Alastor Moody," Dumbledore said. He continued to smile, incongruously avuncular on his young face, as Moody engulfed her hand in his.

"Pleased to meet you," she said, politely smiling up into his dour face.

"Likewise," he said. Minerva drew her hand back and pulled out the third seat at the table, waving off Dumbledore's belated attempt to help her. She was relieved to see that both Wizards looked less conspicuous sitting. Now that she was closer, she could feel the subtle charms they'd set, ensuring that no Muggle would notice them, but she preferred not to rely on them when one could pass easily enough. She smoothed down the skirt of her grey coat and crossed her legs at the knee, ignoring the tired ache in her ankles.

"You said you had something to discuss?" she asked. Best to get straight to business. She would still have the long train ride home when this was done, and her veneer was as brittle as a bombed Muggle building. She would not care to have it slip with these two men.

"Indeed," said Dumbledore, betraying no surprise. "It concerns Grindelwald and the long-range weapons he is developing. His power has not diminished, and I fear that he may soon have the capacity to strike at Wizarding and Muggle communities in England."

"I understand that the Ministry does not believe that these so-called weapons are as dangerous as you are implying," said Minerva.

"The Ministry is a bunch of spineless toads," said Moody. "They would turn themselves over with their bellies up, if they could see profit in it."

Minerva smiled faintly. This man had no reserve, but he'd also not disputed the Ministry's claim. "That does not mean that they are wrong about the long-range weapons," she said.

"I believe they are wrong," said Dumbledore. "And have convinced them to send someone to find out the truth."

"Oh?" asked Minerva. She pasted on her most innocent look, not even glancing at Moody as he chuckled. Dumbledore smiled, studiedly benign and too old for his face.

"You will be pleased to hear that the Ministry has agreed that you would be a suitable person to send."

"Agreed?[,]" Minerva replied, lacing her repetition of Dumbledore's words with scathing disbelief. "Last I heard, the Wizengamot was still of the opinion that women were unfit for duties in the War. That's why I spend my days - and nights, when the messages are recalcitrant - doing Muggle mathematics and aiding in the defence of the Muggle populace."

"The Ministry is also blind," said Moody, breaking in. "You're no fool, and you have to know that Albus here is stretching the truth. He's never been one for telling it straight. The truth is, Dumbledore has only the vaguest of permissions, and plans to tell the Ministry the bare minimum they need."

"Miss McGonagall is indeed no fool," agreed Dumbledore, as suave as if he hadn't just tried to persuade her without the necessary truths. She was glad she'd learned to be untrusting, and stifled the small bitterness she felt over Dumbledore's lack of honesty. It was a common flaw, one that she'd seen time and again amongst the men she worked with. Time would tell if he could be dealt with. She smiled at him, careful not to let her teeth show, and turned to Moody.

"And your role in this, ah, adventure of dubious standing, Mr Moody?" she asked.

Moody grinned and she found herself smiling back at him without reserve. He was young, about her age, and a little rough around the edges. He had the look of someone who would be eager, but not headstrong. He looked totally different when he smiled.

"I am the other part of that 'someone' Dumbledore referred to," he said. "I've been through Auror training, but they have no need of a young upstart like me right now. I've taken leave of absence to take this mission."

"And you both seem very confident that I will take on this mission also," she said. "I might prefer code-breaking to a jaunt through Europe with a death or glory boy, for information that may or may not be important, for a Ministry that may or may not believe in it, should we be successful in procuring it in the first place."

"Oh, I like you," said Moody. "Don't believe a thing Dumbledore says now; he's just going to give you half-truthful platitudes. I can't do it by myself; don't know enough about transfiguration and passing as a Muggle. You can't do it by yourself; don't know enough about killing people. It might be important, or it might not, but Albus here had a rare fit of sincerity and vouched for it, so I'm willing to go."

"I am right here," said Dumbledore. His smooth composure seemed unruffled, and Minerva wondered at how he kept it for just a moment. She had more important things to do, like wonder if she shuld be going along with this hare-brained adventure. A proposal like this was not what she'd expected when she'd gotten on the train.

"Yes," said Minerva. "So I perceive. Are you going to repeat your rare fit of sincerity and vouch for the importance of this to me also?"

As she watched, some of Dumbledore's urbanity dropped from him and he just looked young and tired. She wondered, perhaps a little uncharitably, if she was seeing the real Dumbledore or if this was just a slightly more intimate mask. He didn't smile, though, and his eyes had lost their good-natured twinkle.

"If that's what it takes," he said. "Then, yes. This is important. I vouch for this information, and I need you. I need you both. Miss McGonagall, you're the only person I can think of who has both the necessary transfiguration and arithmantic skills and can pass as a Muggle well enough to travel Europe. You also speak both French and German." He shook his head. "I wouldn't have thought of you, if not for your efforts to get Witches recognised as potential combatants. Please, at least consider this proposal."

Minerva looked at him, then round for the waitress. She found a tired-looking woman behind the counter and signalled her over. "We'll order tea," she said. "Tea, and you can tell me the details, and then I will tell you what I think of this recklessness."

Dumbledore smiled, a small and sincere curve of his lips. She looked to Moody, who was grinning again.

"I trust you bought identification that shows you are members of the Forces and will thus be able to get free tea," she said. "I might believe that Witches can adequately serve in the war effort, but I see no reason why I should pay for my own tea while you explain yourself."

Moody laughed then and Minerva turned from him to order a tray of tea and whatever would pass for refreshment here. His merriment was infectious and Minerva found herself grinning too.

>>>>

The dining room of the tiny pension in France was quiet and grim. Tension was thick; few people unwinding over their simple meal. Minerva listened to the low hum of conversation, contrasted with the laughter from the corner. She noticed that the wine flowed freely there, at least, to the point where the trio of red-faced men were no longer quite decorous in their conversation. Minerva ignored their coarse jokes, watching instead the woman who ran the house and reading the tension in her shoulders.

Across the table, Moody shovelled in his meal. Minerva barely had to look at him to know that he would have noticed the three men too. He would already be planning and preparing for anything. She sliced off another sliver of meat and barely flinched with surprise as her new wedding ring clinked on the fork. Sliding it on had been a surreal experience; Moody had fished it out of a packet of fake documents and tossed it to her carelessly. She'd slid it on and looked at the first of her fake passports, recording her name as Maria Benoit. Moody had checked his too and she'd imprinted his name on her memory. His name was Alain; he was French, late of a position in Franco's Civil Service, now destined for a factory in Serbia, to negotiate a contract of some kind for his Spanish masters. She was mostly just glad that he had taken her advice over his haircut and suit, and she'd breathed easier when she found that he could also speak French and German and even a little Spanish. She was curious about where he had learned, but didn't ask.

"I hope the trains run on time tomorrow," said Moody. Minerva looked across the table at him.

"I am tired of waiting in stations also," replied Minerva. Moody glanced at the table where the three men were now pouring brandy into balloon glasses, careless and greedy. Their waistcoats stretched across their bellies, and the one closest had spilled wine down his shirt in a crimson smear. Minerva supposed them to be members of the local Vichy administration. She neatly forked up more of her potatoes. Looking up, she met Moody's eyes, reading his anger there. He hid it well, for an impetuous hothead.

"An early night might be in order," Minerva suggested. Moody half-smiled, silently acknowledging that she'd guessed right that he needed to get out of the dining room. Her wedding ring caught the light as she took another mouthful. At the table in the corner, chairs scraped as the men loudly proclaimed toasts, swilling down brandy like it was water. Minerva barely stopped her lip from curling.

"For you as well as me, I think," said Moody. He was smiling fully now, having caught her out in her own moment of anger.

"It's a good thing we have each other," Minerva said.

"Indeed, Madame Benoit," Moody said. "Finish your dinner. I find these toasts a little noisy, and not conducive to a quiet night."

Minerva caught sight of one of the men lurching up from his table, brandy bottle in hand. Her heart sank, worrying that this would signal the start of the inevitable toasts to the Glory of France. The man loomed closer, slack-jawed and pink, brandy sloshing in his glass and in the decanter. Glancing towards the door, she saw the other guests slip out quietly, unnoticed by these collaborators.

As the man stopped by their table, Minerva affected a start of surprise, knocking over her water glass and sending it bouncing off the edge of the table and splashing all over the man's trousers. As he stopped and looked down at his legs in drunken puzzlement - puzzlement she knew would quickly morph into wounded dignity and fury - she gave a small shriek and fluttered her hands in ineffectual mopping motions. Moody jumped up from his seat, pressing a spare napkin into the man's hand, forcing him to juggle his glass and brandy decanter until Moody took the decanter and placed it on the table.

Minerva pressed her own napkin to her mouth, affecting fear, as she inwardly laughed at the gracious apologies Moody was making. She got up from her own seat, adding her own apologies and more ineffectual little cleaning motions. The last thing she wanted to do was actually touch him, so she mostly edged away, getting on the other side of the table, close to Moody and the door. As she heard Moody offer to pay for the men's meal, to make up for their embarrassment, he insisted, she stepped back. Moody moved with her, sliding towards the door and past the woman of the house. Her face was as impassive as ever, but Minerva could see the relief there now that she knew she'd be paid for the meal, at least.

Moody shut the door behind him and took Minerva's elbow to guide her roughly up the stairs.

"Did it have to be the water glass?" he said.

"Imagine if you'd had to offer to pay for cleaning his trousers because I used the wine," said Minerva. "At least this way that poor woman gets paid for the disgustingly gluttonous meal they ate."

"You're always thinking of others," mocked Moody.

"I'm always thinking of how to stop you from hexing people, barbarian." Moody huffed a laugh and turned the key in the lock of their tiny bedroom.

"I wish your techniques weren't so expensive. You always think I'm made of money, too," he said. He ushered Minerva in and checked that the blackout curtains were still in place and that their room was secure as she lit the lamp on the small table.

"I know you're made of money," said Minerva, speaking in English now they were in their own room. "I saw exactly how much Dumbledore gave you, remember?"

"Damn him and his peculiar fits of honesty and openness," Moody said, replying in the same language. "I also liberated that pig's pockets of a few things, so I might not even need to spend my money on your solution." He pulled up a chair to the table and removed his wand holster, laying it on the table within easy reach. Reaching into his pocket, he removed a wallet that definitely did not belong to him." Minerva smiled, remembering Dumbledore's almost painful attempts at being transparent and sharing all details of their trip with her. Smiling wider as Moody emptied the wallet of its cash, she shrugged off her own holster and hung it on the bedpost. She sat down and began unlacing her shoes. She loathed how uncomfortable Muggle clothing was, especially at the end of the day. She felt Moody's eyes on her, on her ankles and her fingers. It didn't make her feel uncomfortable, the way she felt sometimes on the trains or buses as strangers watched her. Slipping off her shoes, she wriggled her toes in her stockings as she straightened.

"Do I dare risk changing into my nightgown?" she asked. "We're not likely to have to flee town in the middle of the night?"

"Not likely, no," said Moody. "I put a little sleeping potion into the decanter of brandy."

Minerva laughed. "Of course you did. And how are they going to get home?"

"I expect that our hostess has ways of making sure they don't litter up her house all night," he said. He looked away from Minerva, towards the locked door. It had taken a while for Minerva to get used to this, the intimacy of sharing a room and a bed with him. She still wasn't quite at ease, but Moody had not shown himself anything but a gentleman. "We may as well sleep while we can." Minerva nodded. There were no bombings here, and no airfields. She didn't miss the drone of planes coming in to land, but she still woke often, as if she was still listening for the gaps in each team of planes. Moody stood and they started their awkward shuffle around each other.

Combing out her hair and listening to the rustle of Moody's preparations behind her, Minerva thought of school and the chatter that had accompanied communal bedtime there. That had been a place of girls, though, and there was nothing about Moody that was like any of her dorm mates. She slipped out of her underwear and into an enveloping nightgown, hastily pushing her head through the hole. There was more modesty here, the two of them with their backs turned and their furtive shufflings, than there had been in all of the girls who had shared her room at school. Minerva wondered if it had been the same for Moody and if he missed the freedom he might have had with a male companion.

"I'm finished," she said.

"I'll get the light," responded Moody. Minerva slipped between the sheets, only barely warmer than the air outside despite the wrapped brick their hostess had placed in there earlier. She turned on her side and wrapped her arms around herself as the light went out and the bed dipped on Moody's side. It was odd, she thought, that their camaraderie was so solid during the day and disappeared so suddenly at night. She wished she had the words to speak of this, but she stared into the darkness instead and listened to the door closing and stairs creaking in the rest of the house, and wondered if the men had been taken home in wheelbarrows, weaving through the narrow streets under the stars.

>>>>

Minerva came to dread each day. Soldiers became a more frequent sight, though she did not see or sense any of Grindelwald's forces. Travel took longer as they moved further east; the trains they travelled on took unscheduled stops that made her nervous. She could see that Moody didn't like them either, though she kept her hands folded primly in her lap over her purse and he likewise restrained himself from reaching for his wand. They'd already spent the night on the train two or three times, snatching sleep in turns as best they could. In the depths of the night, Minerva had heard the rattle of a train going past on the other track and had looked out to see cattletrucks lumbering past. She'd turned back to the unheated carriage and Moody, slumbering beside her.

She felt closer to Moody as he slept, trusting her to stand watch. It was odd to find it more intimate to watch him sleep, slumped in the corner of their seats, than it was to share a bed. When it was her turn to sleep, she'd found it hard to keep her eyes closed, not sure if she feared or anticipated his scruntiny. Moody muttered and turned slightly, shivering in the chill. She had already draped their blanket over him and bitterly regretted that they could not cast a heating charm.

A door at the far end of the carriage thumped shut, followed by the sound of footsteps. She hoped it was someone seeking their own bench and not a thief, or worse. The footsteps plodded down the aisle, two pairs, slightly out of step. She felt the chill coming off them as they moved closer; the remnant of some kind of charms woven into their clothes, perhaps. It shivered across her nerves and she nudged Moody's foot with her own. These were wizards. She'd be happier with Moody awake. Next to her, Moody didn't move, but she heard his breathing change.

The footsteps paused at their seats. She blinked and looked up, hoping to seem half-asleep and dazed. The two wizards gazing down at her were young, perhaps even younger than her or Moody. She recognised some of the spells on their cloaks now, brain ticking over as she mentally pulled apart their various defensive charms and transfigurations. A few were unfamiliar to her and she itched to pull her wand and categorise them properly.

"You're awake late, Madame," said the first wizard. He spoke accented German and Minerva hesitated for a moment before answering in the same language, careful to add a few French inflections.

"I thought I felt the train move," she said. "I will soon go back to sleep."

He smiled, twisted and rather unpleasant, and Minerva tensed as he reached for his wand. His companion gripped his shoulder, though, stopping the movement, and muttered something to him. She wished she could understand, but settled for breathing a little easier as they continued walking. Next to her, Moody stayed very still as their footsteps faded. Only when the door clanged shut did he open his eyes and sit up.

"Well spotted," he said. "I wonder what they were doing on a Muggle train in the middle of the night."

Minerva opened her mouth to tell him it hadn't been hard; the magic fairly bled off them, but heard a clatter and screaming coming from further down the train. A series of muffled thuds rocked their carriage and Minerva slid on the seat. Moody caught her arm, holding her upright. For a moment, they were pressed together from head to foot, but Minerva barely noticed over the noises. People in their carriage began to wake up, some pressing their faces against the window and others moving as far away as possible. Moody let got of her and made as if to get up. This time, Minerva caught his arm.

"Whatever it was, it doesn't involve us," she said. Moody looked down at her and tried to shake off her restraining hand. "It doesn't involve us," she repeated. The screaming faded and people began to drift back to their seats. Whatever it was, these people had seen it, or worse, before. Moody took his seat again, face set.

"I hate this business," he said.

"I know." She picked up the blanket and offered it to him but he just smiled crookedly.

"You're always so damnably right, girl," he said.

"Thank you," said Minerva. She spread the blanket over her knees. "I have had to learn to be patient."

"I can see," he said. "Perhaps that's why I'm stuck with you."

"Alain!" Minerva pinned on what she hoped was a look of reproach. "And you told me that you loved me."

Moody laughed. People in the carriage looked around, but away again just as swiftly as soon as they were sure it was nothing dangerous.

"Oh, Maria, I do," said Moody, "with all my heart. I have never found a woman to compare to you." She smiled at him and he snagged a corner of the blanket, tucking it over his lap too. He slung his arm around her shoulders and tugged her closer. She found that she did not mind, simply settling on the seat as best she could and tipping her head down onto his shoulder. "Sleep now. I'll wait out the rest of the night."

"I don't know if I can trust you not to go running off and getting into trouble," she said.

"I have to watch you sleep," he said. "That will keep me safe."

Minerva smiled into the lapel of his coat and closed her eyes.

>>>>

The small hotel was grimy. Even the propaganda posters had a worn, dog-eared look. They looked pessimistic here, different from the ones Minerva was used to from England. She ignored them and concentrated on the woman behind the desk and the painfully slow flicking of her fingers through registration cards. Minerva wanted to go somewhere else. This grey building made her skin crawl. However, this was the hotel designated for foreigners and so this is where they must stay. She had already seen a small group in German uniforms outside, waiting by black cars. Perhaps they were the ones making her nervous.

"What is your business here?" asked the woman. Moody smiled down at her and tried to act like he had not answered this question three times already.

"As you can see, I am a junior undersecretary in the Spanish Ministry of the Interior," he said. "We have business here regarding a contract with a local quarry."

"We have no local quarries," said the woman. Her voice was sharp with suspicion, clear even in her accented German.

"You have the central office of a company that has quarries all over this area."

The woman sniffed, her derision as obvious as the faded patches on her dress. Minerva's uneasiness grew, but they were only going to be here one night. They would be fine. She half-turned, letting Moody watch the woman examine their documentation. She watched the propaganda posters instead, and the soldiers left outside as one car pulled away and then another. She heard the scratch of Moody's pen over their registration card. The woman had obviously decided to accept their story, for the moment at least. Picking up her suitcase, she felt the prickle of magic over her skin as she turned to follow Moody to the stairs. Barely keeping herself from looking around to see where it was coming from, she followed Moody up the bare stairwell and down a dim corridor.

The lock to their room was hard to turn, but it yielded after a few attempts and Moody let her go inside first.

"Stand still," she said as he shut the door. "Did you feel it?"

"The draught?" he said.

"Magic. I'm going to try to pick up what it was from the residue left on you," she said. "Keep still." Moody stood obediently still as she approached him with her hands outstretched. He fixed his gaze on her face as she put her hands on his shoulders. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the magic, dusted finely into the weave of his clothing. It would be easier to do with a wand, but she couldn't risk using a spell. This magic was familiar, something she'd felt recently, but not something she knew intuitively. Frowning, she let the residue seep into her hands, trying to pick out the layers to it. There was something there that had the same feel as a diagnostic, something she'd run on a transfigured object to check it for how deep the transfiguration went. This spell, though, seemed almost to be actively seeking magical traces, or looking for a particular kind of object.

She opened her eyes to see Moody looking down at her. He looked no more worried than usual, but she could feel the tension in his shoulders and arms. She took her hands away and stepped back, ignoring how much colder she felt now.

"I think, but I cannot be certain, that we were just tested for traces of magic," she said. Moody raised his eyebrows.

"You got all that from my shoulders?" he asked.

Minerva smiled at him. "They were very eloquent."

"Do you need to get more information?" he asked. He was looking at her again, that fixed gaze he'd had when she first touched his shoulders.

"I doubt I could get more without a wand," she said. She wanted to get her wand out and start picking apart that spell. It was subtle, not entirely without malice, and now, that she had it on her hands, she could feel how similar it was to the magic from the man on the train. "It was cast by one of the men from the train," she said.

"How can you tell?" Moody asked. "I barely even felt it. Until you said something, I thought it was just a draught of cold air."

"I learned to do this when I was a child," she said. "My grandmother taught me."

"You will have to teach me sometime," said Moody.

"Yes, assuming that we get out of this without being caught."

Moody grinned crookedly and stepped away from the door. "Let me make sure the room is safe first," he said. "And then lets talk."

Minerva turned away as Moody checked the room for Muggle security. She wanted a cup of tea and to rest her aching feet, but they needed to be safe first. She'd been feeling uneasy since the encounter on the train, and now she felt even more nervous. The thought that they were being followed, with two encounters with the same wizards just a few days apart, made her more anxious than anything else had. Even crossing borders and having their fake Muggle documents scrutinised hadn't felt so fraught with danger.

"Clean," announced Moody. He heaved their suitcases over to the bed and sat on one of the hard chairs at the small table by the window. Minerva joined him.

"That scanning spell," said Moody, "just how much magic can it pick up?"

"I don't know," she said. "It could be merely tuned for active magic, and so would only detect us if we had active charms or actually cast a spell. There are spells already that can do that, but this isn't one I recognise."

"Or what else could it be?" asked Moody.

"It could detect passive magic. It could detect our wands, or potions, or even us. I don't know of any spells that can do that, but... it's possible."

"You wouldn't be considering it as a possibility if you hadn't felt something in whatever it was that you did with your hands."

Minerva almost smiled. Moody was so acute sometimes. "Yes. Something about it worries me, but I can't tell what. It feels malicious."

"Can we get rid of it?" he asked. Minerva got up and crossed to the tiny sink in the corner. There was only cold water, but the soap lathered well, though with a distinct smell of tallow. She rinsed her hands and dried them on the worn towel next to the sink. The itch of the magic on her skin faded almost immediately, down to a hum she was barely aware of. She considered her hands for a moment. Not all magic faded like this, and she wasn't sure if she should trust it.

"I don't think it's designed to last," she said. "Perhaps it can't be read from a distance, or perhaps it's supposed to lie dormant." She looked at Moody. "If we go out into the corridor and brush you off, that should get rid of most of it."

Moody nodded and pulled a clothes brush from his bag. Tossing it from hand to hand, he followed her out into the hallway. The hotel was silent around them. Minerva held out her hand for the brush.

"How do you want me?" he asked.

"Just here," she said, indicating a place by the door. They would be able to hear anyone coming before they were seen themselves, but Minerva was acutely conscious of the possibility of being caught as she raised the brush to Moody's shoulders and swept down. The only sound was the rough scrape of the bristles over garbadine, but Minerva was sure her heart was beating loudly enough to be heard over it. When she took Moody's hand and turned him slightly, she thought she heard him draw in a breath sharply, but she didn't look up from his sleeve. With long, deliberate sweeps, she worked over his shoulders and arms, down his back and off the end of his coat.

"They caught us around the shoulders," she said. Turning the brush, she held it out to Moody. He started at her collar, one hand coming up to steady the material under her lapel. Minerva felt her breath stutter, her chest rising enough to brush against the back of his fingers. She risked a look at Moody's face; he was concentrating hard on the brush and the grain of her coat. He was standing close enough that Minerva could feel how warm he was, how solid. The memory of his shoulders under her palms made her skin itch to touch him again. It would be easy to do.

"Turn," he said. Minerva looked up to see Moody looking down at her. His face was very intent. She turned before he could see her blush. Moody's hand on her shoulder made her breath catch again, as he started brushing down her back. He shifted, perhaps to get a better angle, and his hand brushed the bare skin of her neck. Minerva closed her eyes as it lingered there for a moment before Moody settled into a new rhythm with his hand on the back of her neck and the brush sweeping over her back.

"I need to do the bottom," he said. Minerva opened her mouth to tell him that he didn't need to, that the residue was all on their shoulders, but she heard a soft thump behind her and then Moody's hand on her waist for a moment before it moved and he started brushing out the skirt of her coat. She swallowed hard instead, letting him work. Twisting her hands together in front of her, she wondered if she should say something. The silence was not quite awkward, but it felt heavy on her.

"Done," said Moody, his hands dropping away from her. She turned to find him rising to his feet, much closer than she could ever remember him being. She lifted her hands, not sure what she was going to do with them and vaguely surprised to find them smoothing down his lapels. One of Moody's hands cupped the back of her neck again, and her bare skin felt hot underneath it.

"Alastor," she said. He hummed softly, fingers dragging up the bare skin of her neck.

A crash on the stairs made them both jump backwards. Minerva's hands dropped and she turned back to their room, Alastor behind her as the footsteps on the stairs got louder. She crossed to the window, hoping to hide her hot cheeks as he closed the door behind them and turned the key in the lock with a grating click.

 

>>>>

Minerva had only the faintest of ideas of how spies operated. She was familiar with the idea from her time at Bletchley Park; they had all been taught how to spot Axis spies before they'd been allowed near the business of code-breaking. She had never anticipated being a spy herself, so she wasn't sure if the nervous mixture of anticipation and dread was usual. She was wearing her dark grey coat buttoned up over her clothes, hair pulled back and wand securely holstered and within easy reach. She felt better having it there, just as she did with the tiny Muggle gun strapped to her thigh. She was glad she'd taken the gun course at Bletchley.

Next to her, Alastor looked unusually grim as he buttoned up his coat. She hoped she'd need to use neither the gun nor her wand. This, heading off into the dark to seek a contact vouched for by Dumbledore alone, seemed far more fraught with danger than any of their travelling so far. She couldn't get rid of the memory of the wizard from the train, either, wondering if he'd been the one to cast the spell in the hotel too.

Leaving the hotel, Minerva thought the city was even less friendly after dark. Mostly deserted, they were still cautious. Sticking to the back streets, they made their way to the warehouse where they would meet their contact. Minerva felt no relief when they found the door unlocked and slipped inside. Instead, her nerves kicked up a notch as she slowly got used to the even dimmer light inside. They stood very still inside the door and Minerva wondered why they couldn't have arranged to take the documents in daylight, somewhere well-lit and crowded. She couldn't imagine that it could possibly be more dangerous than this.

Alastor slowly stepped away from the door, keeping his back to the wall. Minerva followed. A faint glow of candlelight came from round the corner. Alastor risked a glance. Looking back at Minerva, he nodded and stepped away from the wall and turned the corner, his arms outstretched to show he wasn't carrying his wand.

"Midnight is an odd time to be in search of old newspapers," said a voice in soft and heavily accented German. Minerva breathed a little deeper. That was the code they had been told to expect.

"Any time is a good time for news," replied Alastor.

The candlelight grew stronger and Minerva heard the shuffle of feet. Alastor beckoned her forward too and she turned into the light cautiously, her hands held away from her body also.

"Good, both of you are here," said their contact, a dark-haired witch, a few years older than Minerva. "You can call me Ileana. Come to the light."

Minerva stepped forward. This was her part of the job, to ascertain the documents. Ileana smiled and held them out, a simple sheaf of parchment. Minerva fel the tingle of magic as she touched them and frowned. The feeling was familiar, just like the other two episodes of magic she'd experienced recently.

"Spells," she said. "You said they would be Muggle-copied."

"They are," protested Ileana. Alastor pulled his wand as Minerva looked up at him, but before she could speak the warehouse blazed with light and her wand was gone from her holster as a voice shouted out an _Expelliarmus_. Alastor was at her side in the next instant as she blinked against the glare. Ileana stood with them, teeth bared.

"Blood rats," she hissed. Minerva paled, all the dread she'd been feeling all evening coalescing as the wizard from the train stepped out from the shadows, his companion at his side. She felt Moody Alastor, felt him ready to do something stupid. She clutched his arm as the wizard lifted their wands so that they could see them. His smile was smug, feral around the edges.

"Traitor," he said. He pointed his wand at Ileana. " _Cruciatus_ " Minerva gasped as Ileana screamed, shaking and tearing at her own skin. "Look well, spies, you're next," he said, voice pitched to carry over Ileana's pain. Minerva felt Moody growl, felt him ready to spring forward and sacrifice himself for nothing. She staggered, pretending to faint, and the wizard laughed. "So weak, spies," he mocked.

Minerva's hand didn't shake around the butt of the Muggle pistol. She knew there would be only one chance as she straightened and levelled it. The explosion shook her arm, and she seemed to almost see the bullet flying through the air, through the heavy leather of the wizard's cloak. The spray of blood in the candlelight seemed sharper than she expected, and she fired again, this bullet ripping through the wizard's chest a little higher. Ileana's screams, ubruptly cut off, left a silence in which the clatter of their wands to the floor seemed unnaturally loud. Pivoting a little, she pointed the gun at the other wizard. Before she could say anything, she heard the mutter of Alastor's voice next to her and the wizard went stiff and toppled forward, face splashing into the spreading pool of his comrade's blood.

"Quick, get the document," ordered Alastor, striding forward to check the two fallen wizards. The first one was dead, Minerva could see that, even from this distance. She tucked the gun away, back under her skirt.

"I need to check there are no tracking charms on it," she said, proud that her voice didn't shake. "Give me my wand."

Alastor tossed it to her with no words, merely turning back to riffling through the cloaks of the fallen wizards. She heard a muttered curse and a quick _Stupefy_ , but she didn't look up from the parchment. She didn't know how close behind other members of Grindelwald's forces might be. She found a tracking charm quickly; it was clumsily set and obvious. It didn't have the feel of any of the magic she'd seen from Grindelwald's forces so far. Frowning, she used her wand to gently tease the charm out. It was almost like a living thing to her, she could feel it on the page like a reconaissance photograph, all shades of grey making a pattern to decode.

"The bastards," she muttered, finding the other spells lurking under the surface one. She felt a grim satisfaction. The tracking spell was glaring and unsubtle. Underneath, though, were some others, tracking and recording both, that would take their power from the bearer of the document. She cursed again, under her breath this time. This didn't make sense, there was something wrong with the spells or the documents, or both.

"What have you got?" asked Alastor.

"About five spells to disarm, and even then, I don't know if I can hide all the traces." She wasn't even sure she fully understood what was wrong, but she wasn't about to tell Alastor that.

"Is the information legitimate?" he demanded.

"I haven't looked at that yet," she said. "Making sure there are no more wandpoint surprises is more important."

"We have a little time," Alastor said. "The rest of the warehouse is clear."

She heard Ileana moan, slowly coming round from the Cruciatus. Alastor made a low noise, like a snarl, and started forward.

"Wait," said Minerva. She chewed her lip. "I want to ask her about this parchment." Perhaps Ileana would be able to shed light on it, whether she could be trusted or not.

"She betrayed us," said Alastor.

"Maybe not," said Minerva. "This was Muggle copied. The spells are more recent, and there is something odd about them."

"So?" Alastor sounded impatient.

"Fresh spells are easier to detect," Minerva said. "If this was a set up from the beginning, they wouldn't have bothered with a Muggle copy either."

"Damn your logic. We were betrayed. Take the document and go."

"I had nothing to do with these Blood Rats," said Ileana, cursing in an unfamiliar language as she sat up. She was bleeding from a gash on her head and still breathing fast. "The tail must have been on you. I have been here waiting for three days."

"How did they get into the building without you noticing?" challenged Alastor.

"I don't know," she said. "But I took this copy myself, from the document in the master file in the house at Nurmengard. It was brought to me by my brother, from the hands of one who works there himself."

Minerva listened to her, watched the rise and fall of her chest. She put her hand back on the parchment and tried to sift through the evidence. She needed to get this right, but she needed to do it quickly too. It was the same endless dilemma of care and haste she followed at Bletchley.

"It wasn't her," she said.

"Are you sure?" he asked. Ileana said nothing, just looked at them both and waited.

"I'm sure," Minerva said. Alastor didn't look convinced, his face showing his distrust of Ileana. Minerva said, "This residue is the same as was on us. I think it was designed to trigger some kind of alarm or tracking, or maybe a homing signal. I don't know for certain, but it was the spell from us that they followed."

"They caught you with a spell?" Ileana asked.

"At the Muggle hotel," said Minerva, remembering the cold shiver of the spell landing and the equally cold rush of the magic from the parchment. She was sure they were related. She carefully kept her eyes away from the two wizards on the floor, watching Ileana instead. She was breathing more easily now, colour coming back to her face. Minerva could see that she was still hurt, from the way she clutched her ribs on one side.

"If you were travelling as Muggles, and still they found you, then they must know that this is missing," she said. "My brother...." Her face twisted in dismay and hatred for a second before she smoothed it out and calmed herself again. "It doesn't matter. I have to get you and this document safely on the way."

Minerva glanced at Alastor. He had been watching Ileana closely, but shifted his gaze almost as if he knew that Minerva was watching. He gave a rueful half-smile and looked back to Ileana. "Here," he said, holding out her wand. "Minerva, can we risk magic?"

"Not right now," said Minerva. "I think that either of us will still be carrying the traces of this spell. We could trigger it again." She definitely didn't want anymore surprises. Her hand still felt the imprint of the gun and the way it had jerked as she fired. She took a deep breath.

"I can fix my own ribs," said Ileana. "And whatever else needs to be done."

"I need to dismantle the spell," said Minerva. "Then we need to disappear. Not even any latent magic."

"I will question the other one," said Ileana. Minerva shuddered inwardly. There was something implacable and unpleasant about the intonation Ileana had put on the word 'question', though she didn't doubt that it was nothing worse than what would have been her and Alastor's fate. She rubbed her hand against her leg and swallowed. Alastor crossed to her side as Ileana slowly levered herself up.

"I have the other Muggle documents here," he said. "Can we risk going back to the hotel for our bags?"

"Let me clear these," she said. "Then I will know how deep the spell went." She half-smiled up at him. "You might feel the magic every now and then," she said. "Be prepared. It is the only magic we can risk." Alastor wrapped his free hand over hers, over her wand. He felt warm against the ice of her skin, and she wished she could leech all of his heat and be properly warm again. She took a deep breath and steadied her other hand against the table.

"Go and help Ileana," she said. "I will tell you when I need you. Be careful." She looked over to Ileana and pitched her voice louder. "If I make a mistake with this spell, we could end up triggering another alarm. If I do, I don't know how many will answer."

"Hopefully, this creature will tell us," said Ileana. Minerva glanced down at the prone wizard and pushed down a wave of nausea. He was lying in a pool of his comrade's blood, resting nearly on his body. He'd come around, but Alastor's _Petrificus_ meant that only his eyes moved, rapid and panicked. Minerva concentrated on the parchment.

Resting her hand on the inked lines, Minerva sank into the spells that wove over its surface and her skin. In her mind, they were warp and weft, coloured threads of magic making the lightest of nets. Each thread was a curve, making up a surface that rippled with the intent of the caster. Minerva could see the plane, turning it over in her head to see all the angles that made it up. She loved this, the thrill of breaking the net down into a set of equations, more or less neat, all elegant in their own way. They determined the shapes of the net, and the things that were caught or not.

Minerva didn't know how long she sat there, murmuring to herself as she found the end of each thread of magic. She pulled each one free from the net, picking them patiently from Alastor's coat, from her own, from the skin of her fingers. Eventually, she opened her eyes and blinked, looking up at Alastor as he stood in front of her.

"It's done," she said.

"Good," said Alastor. "It's nearly morning." Minerva looked around, seeing the dim light filtering through the dirty windows. The movement made her neck hurt. Alastor helped her to her feet, hand cupped under her elbow as she worked to stay steady on her feet. She stamped them on the floor as pins and needles set in. Ileana stood nearby, looking nearly grey in the dim light. Her free hand still cupped her ribs protectively, but she looked purposeful through her exhaustion.

"What did you find?" she asked. Minerva sighed.

"I have pulled the spell apart and dispersed it," she said. "There were traces on you too, Ileana, from when you handed it over. It will be all over our luggage, though."

"I have our spare documents," said Alastor. "And from what our friend says, a watch will have been put on the hotel as soon as these two failed to report." Minerva glanced over to where he gestured and wished she hadn't. Both bodies were slumped over, and there were splatters of blood she was not responsible for.

"They were watching the hotel?" Minerva asked. She frowned. "I thought Grindelwald would have thought Muggles were below his notice."

Ileana shrugged. "We don't know why they were watching. But I think we can be sure that they will find this place soon. We must leave."

"Where will you go?" Minerva asked.

Ileana shrugged again, face hardening further. "I must find my family," she said. "And what is left of our cell."

Minerva could tell from her expression that she didn't hold much hope of finding anything, not even enough to bury. She wished she had something to say that would help, but there was nothing that would work.

"We'll get this back," said Alastor, picking up the document from the table. "It will change the war."

"I'll believe that when I see the moss cover Nurmengard and choke it with green," Ileana said. "But I hope it helps. I'll Apparate once I'm outside the wards." She turned for the door, straightening her shoulders as she turned the corner. Minerva wished there was something she could say or do, but there was nothing. She had never even heard Ileana's real name, would probably never hear if she lived or died. She hated the war in that moment, swaying with tiredness on her feet, watching Ileana leave.

"We should go," said Alastor, jerking her out of her abstraction. Minerva took the parchment from him and put it in her pocket carefully. Tightening her belt and straightening her coat, she followed Alastor to the door. She picked her way around the rubbish to the partly open door, stepping out into the misty grey of the morning.

>>>>

Minerva edged past the arguing couple in the aisle, scanning to the end of the carriage. The carriage was nearly empty; she breathed a sigh of relief and led the way to the farthest set of seats. She would feel better with a wall behind her. Alastor followed, his free hand resting on the middle of her back. Minerva felt hot under the slight pressure, but she didn't shrug him off. It would look like part of their cover, but she couldn't fool herself into thinking that was all it meant to her. Besides, she was tired and more than half sure that it was only Alastor's hand that was keeping her in a straight line. Perhaps it was only the responsibility of steering Minerva that was keeping Alastor walking straight.

Sinking into the seat closest to the window, Minerva settled her purse demurely on her knee and looked out at the platform as Alastor more thoroughly checked the carriage. She watched the people milling outside, the guards checking tickets carefully. This train would take them over the border and back into France, and Minerva couldn't wait to get there. She hoped that they'd be able to pause for at least a night in their headlong flight; she was tired of snatching sleep as best she could in an unheated train carriage. It had been five nights now. They'd walked from the warehouse to the train station, and it wasn't until they were on board that Minerva noticed the blood on her cuff. It had faded now; a brown spot that reminded her, each time she looked down, of what they had done. She didn't think she was likely to forget, even without the stain.

Alastor sat next to her, placing their folded blanket on the seat next to him. It had been their only purchase as they rushed through the station. Minerva looked away from the blanket and stopped herself from thinking about the night to come and how they would huddle together under the blanket, one staying awake and one sleeping, or trying to. She was as familiar with Alastor's heartbeat as she was with her own; she could tell when he was dreaming from the way his eyelids twitched and his breathing changed. She didn't think she'd ever been so close to someone with nothing more than sleeping between them. She stared out at the platform, her gaze suddenly focusing on two cloaked figures near the back of it.

The sound of the train's engine changed as Minerva gripped Alastor's arm. "At the back, under the clock," she said. As the train eased from a stop, she heard Alastor's breath catch too.

"Kiss me," he said, cupping her cheek with his hand and turning her head. She turned and his lips bumped hers. She shifted on the seat, moving to obscure their faces further from view, bringing them closer together. The kiss was rough and hurried, all lips and deception, but her hands still tingled as she brought them up to Alastor's shoulders, one moving round to the bare nape of his neck. The train pulled away from the station, slowly gathering speed. When Minerva broke the kiss, breathing hard, the station was behind them. She didn't have time to think about the smoothness of Alastor's skin under her fingers, or the way his arm had tightened around her shoulders. She certainly couldn't contemplate how the kiss could be improved on.

"Did they see us?" she asked, pleased with the steadiness of her voice.

"I don't think so," he said, voice hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Coincidence." She hummed uncertainly. She wasn't sure she believed in coincidence. She didn't think Grindelwald would either, but there was nothing much she could do about it.

Sitting back in her seat, Minerva smoothed her sleeves and her skirt, avoiding looking at Alastor for a moment. His hand brushed up against hers and she glanced at him quickly before leaving her hand where it was, their fingers just touching. She looked back out the window, avoiding his gaze.

"I'm worried," she said. "And I could do with a night not spent on a train."

"We should be over the border this afternoon," said Alastor. "Dumbledore said that Grindelwald's soldiers and spies are rarely seen in France, but I'm not sure I believe that."

"I'd like to believe it," Minerva said.

"I like how untrusting you are."

"It's a underrated virtue."

"Oh, I value it," Alastor said. "You are a woman of resource and vigilance."

"Constant vigilance," agreed Minerva, "and infinite resource."

Alastor laughed and shifted in his seat. Minerva looked away from the window and looked up into his smiling face. He folded his hand over hers properly and brought them to his lips, pressing a courtly kiss to her fingers.

"Constant vigilance," he replied. "I like that." Minerva squeezed his fingers and smiled. The conductor opened the door at the other end of the carriage and Alastor let go of her to fumble for the tickets. Minerva folded her hands in her lap and looked back out the window, waiting for the countryside to pass and the train to stop.

>>>>

They stayed in a different town, in a different pension. Their lack of luggage was noticeable now that they were off the train, and Minerva wasn't sure that the woman who led them up the wide staircase to the tiny room at the back of the house believed that they had really lost their bags in a mix up. She didn't ask questions, though, and that was as much as Minerva could really hope for. She had agreed to bring up water, an iron and a clothes brush, and Mineva hoped that the pair of them would be able to repair the worst of the ravages to their appearance.

Alastor checked the room carefully while Minerva made arrangements for them to dine in their room. As their hostess left, he turned away from the window and smiled ruefully.

"I would feel a lot better with a good set of wards," he said.

"Me too," Minerva replied. The room was plainly furnished and tiny, comfortable, even though she still didn't feel quite secure. She sat down at the little table and tugged on the buttons of her boots, slipping them off her feet with a sigh. Her stockings were nearly black around the toes and she shuddered as she looked at them. "I would also like a warming charm on the room and a nice pair of slippers from that cobbler in Liter Alley."

"I would like some Firewhisky," said Alastor, "but I expect we're doomed to disappointment."

"Yes," said Minerva. "The most we can reasonably ask for is that the landlady brings us some hot bricks and that the water for washing is actually warm."

"You remembered to ask for tea immediately?" Alastor asked.

"Without sounding so deplorably English, yes," said Minerva. Alastor smiled. He turned back into the room and slipped off his heavy coat. The fire was built up in the grate, and Minerva just hoped that someone would come and light it soon. She looked around the room, avoiding looking at the bed. It seemed smaller and cosier than the last one they had slept in, and Minerva wasn't quite sure how the rules had changed between them.

The knock on the door was brisk and Minerva stood to answer it, nodding at Alastor as he took a position to cover her position. Minerva could see his hand ready to reach for his wand if needed. The landlady was there as the door opened, her arms full. Behind her was a chambermaid with a trolley and they bustled around the room. When they left again, it was warmer and fuller and Minerva turned to Alastor.

"No Firewhiskey, but if you pour some tea we can get on with making sure we don't look so much like scarecrows."

"Being a war hero is supposed to be glamourous," complained Alastor, but he crossed to the table and laid out the cups as directed. Minerva slipped off her coat and draped it next to Alastor's. She would sponge out the worst of the dirt and hope that a good brushing would set them both to rights. The tea was hot and bracing and Alastor worked alongside her to clean and mend. It was surprisingly domestic to slowly strip down, out of their grimy clothes and move around each other to wash and wring and hang out their clothes in front of the fire. Feeling surprisingly unselfconscious, Minerva draped her final stocking over the line in front of the fire and Alastor put down his shoe and the blacking. They'd moved around each other easily, finding a rhythm to their movements and dividing up their tasks effortlessly. Minerva had rarely experienced a harmony like this.

Standing and stretching, Alastor's borrowed robe gaped open in the front. Minerva tried to force herself to look away. She wasn't sure she wanted the intimacy of the evening to end and shift into the different, more dangerous intimacy of bedtime. She'd almost been able to forget, for the past few hours, the way Alastor's skin felt under her fingers, or the hasty press of his lips on hers. As the blackout curtains blocked them in and the candles on the table and mantelpiece wore down, the room felt even smaller and the thought of bed loomed large.

It wasn't that Minerva didn't know about sex. She'd been both amused and horrified by some of the stifling beliefs that her Muggle colleagues held about sex; she'd been glad that the wizarding world was a little more open. It was more the way that she had to rely on Alastor, and he on her. The trust between them made sex more complicated, more intimate and more of an entanglement. They were already woven together. In a few short weeks, Minerva already knew more about him than she'd known about some of the students she had shared a dorm room with at Hogwarts for seven years. It was a terrifying, pressure cooker intimacy, and the desire she felt was heady.

"I think there is more tea in the pot," said Alastor, putting his arms down and turning to the table. If he'd noticed her attention, he gave no sign of it.

"Good," said Minerva. She crossed to the table and sat down. Her bare feet were clean now, if still a little cold. She twitched the edge of her own borrowed robe over her crossed knees and looked up as Alastor deposited a cup in front of her. He jerked his gaze away from her legs and Minerva felt her body start to heat. Picking up the cup, she took a sip, looking away again to the row of damp clothing in front of the fire. It was an impossibly cozy scene, but all she could think about was how they were both nearly naked already, and as safe as they could probably be for now.

"Hopefully, we will be able to get to the Spanish border tomorrow," she said.

"I hope so too," agreed Alastor. "I cannot share Dumbledore's belief that Grindelwald will not be pursuing us into France, so the further away we get, the happier I will be."

"I agree," said Minerva. "Are you sure you shouldn't take the document and Apparate?"

"We've argued this out before," said Alastor. "Apparation would be the first thing they'd be tracking." Minerva frowned and took another sip of her tea. It tasted like peppermint and chamomile, from the landlady's garden. Minerva didn't mind.

"I would like to argue that there would be support from London," she said.

"But you know there wouldn't be," said Alastor. "We were sent on this mission because the Wizengamot wanted to shut Dumbledore up, not because they think these plans are important. We're expendable to them; a hot-headed youngster just through Auror training and a girl. But we're not expendable to each other."

Minerva half-smiled, listening to the weariness of his voice. They were too young to be cynical, but here they were.

"That's true," she said. "You are not expendable to me. Who else would I have to keep watch while I sleep on freezing, filthy Muggle trains?"

"I wouldn't trust anyone else to do it for me," said Alastor. It sounded like a declaration. He met her gaze. "Will you come to bed with me?" This sounded nothing like an invitation to sleep. Standing, Minerva put down her cup and held out her hand, stepping closer to Alastor when he took it.

"Yes," she said. She let go of all her worries and brought her free hand up to stroke over his face and down his neck. Bending down, she let him lift his face to hers and slid her lips over his.

This was different to the kiss on the train. This was exploration, the first step into something dangerous and tender both. Alastor broke the kiss and stood, wrapping both his arms around her and nearly lifting her off her feet. Minerva simply looped her arm around his neck and pulled his lips back within reach, stepping towards the bed in perfect time with his movements.

Minerva let go of Alastor when she felt the mattress behind her thighs. She dragged back the covers hastily before reaching for the belt of his robe. Alastor kissed her again, hands in her hair, as the material gave way under her fingers and gaped open. She touched his skin greedily, letting her hands follow the skin she'd seen exposed earlier before bringing them down the sides of his chest, around his waist and over his back, pressing him close. His erection was hard against her thigh and she felt impatient, full of urgent desire to get as much of Alastor as she could.

"Bed," gasped Alastor. Minerva wriggled back from him, her hands falling to her own belt.

"Climb in," she said. She undid the belt and let the material fall to the floor as Alastor hastily shrugged off his own robe and climbed onto the bed. He settled against the pillows, watching her with an expression of open lust as she climbed up and over him. She thought he looked beautiful in the flickering candles and the flames from the fire. He was solid, something that could be held onto and relied on. Reaching out for her, Alastor drew her close and into another kiss, hands hot on her waist as she knelt above him, straddling one thigh. Each kiss was wilder, more passionate and less careful. Minerva revelled in them, letting each one inflame her more.

This was what she wanted; something real and intimate, a different kind of danger to offset that of the outside. Alastor was dangerous precisely because he was so reliable, because she trusted him so much. When he broke the kiss to push her hair out of the way and kiss down her neck and across her shoulder, she dug her fingers into the skin of his back and pressed closer. She wanted to give and recieve as much as she could; existing only in this moment was a kind of bliss. Alastor's other hand slid down, over her hip and thigh, sweeping back up her leg and skimming the skin of her belly. Minerva settled closer, running her hand over his chest and down, loosely circling his cock and smiling into his jaw as he bit back a moan.

Minerva lost herself in the friction of skin against skin. She and Alastor were one creature, twin heartbeats, entwined nerve endings. When he finally eased his fingers inside her, soft and slow, he hid a smile of his own in her neck as she groaned.

"Protection," she gasped. She wanted him in her now. Alastor opened his eyes and reached over for his wand before stopping.

"No magic," he said. He collapsed back against the pillows and Minerva shook her head, trying to catch her breath enough to think.

"Muggle devices," she said. "French letters. Have you got any?"

"No," said Alastor. "What, what are they?"

"Nevermind," said Minerva. "I had some; they're back in my luggage."

"Stupid no magic rule," said Alastor. Minerva looked at him as he slumped back on the pillows. His cheeks were flushed and his skin was damp with sweat. She looked further down, taking in the heave of his chest and the way his cock arched up towards his belly.

"There is something else we could do," said Minerva. Alastor opened his eyes and looked at her, mouth slowly curving into a smile as he realised what she was talking about. Minerva squeaked as he tipped her over onto her back, kissing the hollow of her throat before heading down, wriggling over the sheets to get between her legs. Laughing, Minerva pushed on his head to encourage him to move faster, the noise cut off in a moan as he reached his goal. She smiled up at the ceiling, feeling free and happy, elation fizzing back through her veins as she let Alastor do as he pleased.

>>>>

The border between Spain and Vichy France was a big mental milestone on their way home. As they walked through the main doors of the station and into the street, Minerva felt like they were nearly home, even though at least one more day of travel lay ahead of them before they could catch their secure portkey back to England from Dumbledore's safe location. Alastor steered her to the left, towards a small restaurant. They had time to eat before catching what would, hopefully, be their final train.

The clicking of the tracks had become a refrain in Minerva's ears now, after so many days of flight, and she found it difficult to disengage from the rhythm and move with the press of people on the streets. Alastor held the door for her and she stepped inside, smiling at his chivalry. The smile slipped as she looked around the room. She couldn't put her finger on it, but something was wrong here. The room was too quiet and even the clatter of cutlery on plates was muted. She tucked her hand into the crook of Alastor's elbow as they made their way to the counter and the limited buffet choices.

Alastor felt her tension and led the way to a table at the very back of the room. She followed, sinking into the seat he held for her and waiting as the silent waitress put down their plates. Alastor sat too, scanning the room with a practiced gaze. Nudging her foot, Alastor distracted Minerva from her own scan of the room. When she met her gaze, she knew he'd seen wizards. She deliberately didn't look, merely shaking out her napkin with an air of unconcern and placing it on her lap. Alastor did the same, bringing his plate closer and beginning to eat with an air of unconcern. Minerva ate too, slowly slicing up the chunks of vegetables in the thin stew on the plate. As she chewed, she tried to feel the magic that was deadening this place, struggling to locate it.

The magic was smooth, certainly different to what she'd felt before. There were no sharp edges of malice to it. It seemed almost bland, and she wondered if that was just part of the deadening effect it was having on noise. Alastor pretended not to notice, eating his food quickly, the better to get back to watching the room. Minerva didn't change her deliberate mouthfuls, each slow forkful covering up the racing of her brain and senses. She could feel the magic more clearly the longer she sat there. This was cotton wool, smooth and formless. She took her last mouthful and wiped at her lips. Alastor looked at her and she didn't need him to speak to know what he was thinking. Once they left, they would have to be prepared for anything.

Minerva stood as Alastor did, hoping that they were simply paranoid and that the wizards were there for reasons of their own, and not because Minerva and Alastor were plagued with bad luck. Turning, she caught sight of them in the seat by the window. It was hard to look at them; she felt her gaze wanting to slide past them and realised what the magic was. She quickly led the way outside, careful to keep her eyes averted.

Alastor's hand on her back steadied her as they walked down the street. Each nerve was stretched, waiting for the crackle of magic behind them. She itched for her wand but resisted the urge to pat her sleeve and check that it was still there. The weight of the gun against her thigh was comforting. Each click of their heels on the pavement was a step closer to home, and hopefully, to safety. Minerva wished she could look over her shoulder.

As they rounded the first corner, Minerva felt a little of the tension leech out of Alastor.

"Did you feel anything?" he asked.

"It was a sort of an anaesthetic," she said. "Like they were trying to avoid notice." She was curious about the seamlessness of the spell and the way it seemed to sit like a muffler over the inside of the restaurant, but she'd have time to figure it out later. Intellectual curiosity could wait until they were on the train.

"I don't think they were looking for us," he said.

"Luckily," Minerva said.

"Yes," Alastor agreed. Despite each step taking them further from danger, neither of them slowed their steps. Minerva was tired of this wearing tension. She wanted to be home in the relative safety of her bunker at Bletchley; she wanted to lose the rhythm of the train from her steps and the drag of subterfuge from her mind. Alastor strode alongside her and she wondered if he was looking forward to being home, or if he took pleasure in the knife edge they trod. Glancing up at him for a moment, he looked so tired under the grim attention of his face that she was sure he wanted it to end also.

"When we get home," he said, "I would like you to teach me about how you feel out those spells." He didn't look at her, and Minerva wondered how much of what he said was reassuring himself that he would be able to get home.

"I would like to learn how you learned all these languages," she replied.

Alastor looked down at her and smiled slightly as they turned the last corner into the entrance to the train station. "I would like to learn how you learned to fire a gun."

"I would like to learn how you learned to do a wandless Petrificus."

"We'll have to spend a lot of time together."

"I am sure it will be valuable, and well-spent," Minerva said. "An appetite for learning is, after all, an excellent way to go about life."

"Your appetite is suitably insatiable," said Alastor.

"Are we still talking about learning?" asked Minerva. She glanced up at him innocently, smiling only when he laughed. She pushed open the door to the train station herself, letting him catch up on the inside. Leading the way to their platform, she let their shoulders brush together as they walked, the pair of them skirting around the knots of people lined up at ticket windows and other platforms. They walked in perfect step, one foot after the other all the way down to where their train waited.

>>>>

"Excellent, excellent," beamed Dumbledore, opening up the parchment that Minerva had just handed over. Minerva sank into a seat near the fire burning in the grate, smiling as Alastor sat next to her on the small sofa. Dumbledore looked outlandish in his robes and hat with his red hair down his back, but Minerva wasn't certain whether he actually was outlandish or whether it was just contrast from the weeks of travelling as Muggles. She hoped that Alastor would not look ridiculous in robes.

"Did you have much trouble?" Dumbledore asked.

"Yes," said Alastor bluntly. "We did. And I am pretty sure your contact at Nurmengard is dead by now, too."

Dumbledore's polite urbanity dropped for a moment, the studied benignness of his expression slipping into genuine grief. Minerva watched as he pulled himself back together, seeing how he knit together the parts of his smooth facade. Next to her, Alastor snorted softly and she knew he was thinking what a waste it was that Dumbledore was unable to be truthful. He preferred to say what he thought, though Minerva had seen that he was capable of subterfuge too. She would never have guessed it from their first meeting, those weeks ago.

"I'm sorry," said Dumbledore. Minerva didn't really believe him. She was sure he would stop at little to reach the ends he was aiming for, and it was just luck that his ends were ones she agreed with. It did not matter anyway.

"You don't really mind, so long as you have your document. I hope you and the Ministry have joy of it," said Alastor.

Dumbledore didn't deny it. Waving his wand, he sent a small table trotting over to Minerva and Alastor, laden with a tea set and a small cake stand. Minerva looked at it in bemusement, from the butterflies on the china to the lemon icing on the cupcakes.

"I'm sorry, would you prefer coffee?" Dumbledore asked.

"Not at all," said Minerva. Glancing at Alastor, she saw him staring at the tea set as if he had forgotten what it was too. She turned two cups over in their saucers and reached for the milk jug, tipping a little in to one cup. Alastor preferred his tea with lemon. She looked up to see Dumbledore watching them both. She raised her eyebrows and he turned back to the parchment.

They told their tale in halting sentences as Dumbledore analysed and copied the document. He was serious, listening carefully to their descriptions. When Minerva described the spell that had caught them, he nodded and paid full attention. Minerva's feet were hurting and she was exhausted by the time they finished. Next to her, Alastor was nearly nodding off against the back of the sofa.

"You're tired," said Dumbledore. "I will let you go and rest."

"That would be good," said Minerva. Alastor jerked awake as she nudged his foot.

"Thank you," Dumbledore said. He dropped all his mannerisms and let something close to sincerity shine through. "I wish I could have made things easier for you."

"We had each other," said Alastor. "It made being expendable a little more bearable."

"You weren't expendable," protested Dumbledore. This time, Minerva snorted. She could see through him. It was good to know the limits of his truthfulness, even though it was disappointing to have been proved right. She felt Alastor's rueful grin next to her and stood.

"Thank you for the tea," she said. "I trust that I have proved that witches make perfectly good combatants."

"When I am in charge of a war," Dumbledore said, "you shall be my second in command."

"I'll hold you to it," she said. She reached out a hand to help Alastor up, wondering just how to ask if he wanted to come to her house with her. He grinned up at her and she didn't think there would be a problem, no matter how she asked. She grinned back and tugged him up and out of his seat.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Being Expendable [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000138) by [codeswitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/codeswitch/pseuds/codeswitch)




End file.
